Ranting - dec. 99
by:  Dolomite

Hideeho good readers. Welcome to this year's Thanksgiving Ranting. Now, I know that it is a little late to be talking about thanksgiving but it is close enough dammit! You still have leftovers, don't you? You probably still have a few decorations up. And you are chiding me on my use of a thanksgiving theme for this Ranting? How dare you damn uncle-fucker!
     Sorry about that, I must apologize. I had a very trying thanksgiving:
     It started around 10 a.m. when my dog (40 overweight pounds of "little house dog") decided that my heavily breathing, drunken body was equivalent to a trampoline. Damn dog. If it weren't thanksgiving, it would have been punted across the room. But I was nearly in a holiday mood. That and I was too drunk to properly stand up to punt it across the room. I was still in the  "I can't feel anything below my waist"  stage of heavy drinking, due to the depression caused by the rambunctious affairs of my now ex-girlfriend. So it was simply placed in a nearby cardboard box and had a blanket thrown over it. That should hold him for a couple hours at least. It was then that I remembered that I was due for thanksgiving dinner at 2:00 p.m. at my parent's house. I had only three hours to shower, shave, wake up and get rid of my hangover. It should have been enough time had I not gone back to sleep.
     Like any clever thinker, I set my alarm the night before just in case I slept too long. I set it for 1:30 p.m. giving me half an hour to get ready and be slightly late. If by chance I had gotten up on time, it would simply anger my dog into a killing frenzy for the first person to walk through the door. This would most likely be my leech of a brother who always decides that my place is better than any hotel for his cheap ass. Him getting mauled by a 40 pound housedog is payment enough for his presence within my domicile. Lazy bastard.
     So I awoke to the screaming siren that is my alarm, cursing myself for allowing my hangover to grow strong during my sleep. What was a mild headache before became a large, pulsating migraine that refuse to even let another sensation to be known on time. This would explain how I burned my mouth on hot coffee and stubbed my toe on the door in my zeal to get to my parents home on time lest the conversation turn to me. Everyone knows that the last sibling to enter the house on the holiday get-togethers is the primary target of all family discussion. These discussions are the type that have the usual questions like: "when will you get a real job", "do you have a girlfriend/boyfriend/both yet" or "what do you plan to do with the rest of your life". It is these questions that all youth fear.
     Without noticing them until I was at the first intersection, applied the brakes, and drank the last of my coffee. I cursed like a straight sailor on crack after noticing that there was no shore leave for the next three months. Then I noticed the van full of nuns looking at me strangely. The one cursed me in Latin before driving away. Damn penguins.
     At my parent's house, I was still the last to arrive despite avoiding two cop cars, traffic and the temptation of prostitution and being two minutes early. It went dead quiet as I entered the house of my childhood. I could not move. I merely waited for them to make the first move. Thankfully my mom was always amongst the quickest to notice fear and nervousness (usually to place it at her advantage). She asked me if I would like to sit down, offered me a glass of water and said the turkey would be done in half an hour. Then she left me in the lion's den and unlike Daniel, I had no divine light to surround and protect me. Instead I heard a divine voice whisper, "Missed you the past few Sundays." My uncle, another quick one to realize the opportunity to take advantage of the weak amongst the herd (he is a salesman) asked me who I like in the game. I looked at the television hoping to see whom he might be talking of. There on the screen were the Chicago Bears and the Detroit Lions. "Chicago of course..." I managed, "...who else would I back?"
     "Just thought you might wake up to realize that the Bears were the worst team in the league." quipped Uncle Leo, a diehard Lions' fan and therefore a diehard Bears'opponent. That bastard was just happy that they're winning 21-7. He wanted me to get enraged and make a scene just to knock me out of contention for the coveted second turkey leg (Dad always gets the first). I would not let him get me to physically react; I would engage him at his own level. Slowly I drank my water, giving me time to think and quieting the still pounding headache. Then I replied, "So Uncle Leo, how many rushing yards do you think Barry Sanders would have this year if he were playing? Enough to beat Walter Payton's record?" Uncle Leo only managed to mutter something akin to "little bastard" under his breath since he was still angry at the early retirement of Barry Sanders. Touchdown Dolomite! And the score was even.
     As the game pressed one, any stranger to my family would not notice how my Uncle and me would attempt to vex and frustrate the other into losing the right to the coveted turkey leg. It was not truly because the meat was good, Mama Dolomite is known for her lack of skills in the kitchen, almost as well known for her actual skills with any blunt, wooden object that is usually used to smack anyone that tries to discuss or mention the previous said lack of skills. It was for the bragging rights. My uncle would comment on the lack of a permanent quarterback for the Bears. I would comment on the lack of Viagra in my uncle's cabinet yet the abundance of Viagra bottles. He would congenially ask me about my ex-girlfriend saying how he saw her on a corner wearing only a fur coat and a pair of hot pants. I would ask him if how he managed to pay for his supply of Viagra when he had to pay so much child-support, what with having one bastard child and two from a divorce. He would ask about my grades for college. I would ask how he got banned from all strip clubs in the immediate ten-mile radius. And so on.
     As dinner approached, we were head to head as far as the turkey Leg was concerned. Every insult he threw at me was swiftly returned and vice-a-versa. We were both unable to score that winning point much like the Cleveland Browns. The game was drawing to an end and there was little hope of overtime. Oh no, there would be no kitchen fire this year. This year my dad had a fire extinguisher at hand for that little emergency. Nor would there be any hungry children to grab both legs in their rushing of the table in the pre-Grace atmosphere, the traditional period in which the table is scoped to see what is offered and how to get to it. My grandmother took care of that thanks to a general pooling of children in the basement and the renting of a Playstation to distract the sound of the locking door. All was in readiness and my uncle and me were still in a deadlock for the turkey leg.
     The table was set. The food was out. The turkey had been carved and upon it were the two treasured legs. One was immediately placed upon my dad's plate. He learned early on that although we all knew that one was his and the other one was up for grabs, we never really did agree on which one was his. There had been a thanksgiving or two before in which both Uncle Leo and me would claim victory only to behold the anger of my dad at his lack of leg. All was in place, the children were seated at their own table and Grace was bestowed upon my out-of-work brother who had been foolish enough to try to steal soap from this house. Poor bastard.
     Grace finished and a grim stare down began between Uncle Leo and me. It was like the stare before the coin flip or the between gunslingers. There is no love or hate shown. Only determination to win was present in the eyes of each. Through some unknown force, both of us moved toward the turkey leg. I had youth on my side but it was a few inches closer to him. As both forks moved toward that glistening drumstick, a third fork moved nonchalantly toward it. This fork had both youth and location on its side. It beat us both and had the turkey leg on its plate before either of us could realize what had happened. Unable to stop our quick stabs, our forks collided and became entwined. Stunned, we looked in search of the turkey leg. We glanced in unison from one plate to another. Most of the residents of the table also searched from plate to plate as though one of them had by mistake wished to have it. Then we saw it being decimated by the welfare-fed jaws of my good-for-nothing brother. This bastard had taken it away from us without earning or asking for it. And he was enjoying it without the respect such a piece requires. Like a junkyard dog, he merely sunk his teeth in and tore apart the flesh. Once he had taken enough meat away from the bone, he placed leg in the trash. It still had some meat on it. Such degradation made a tear come to my eye and several come to Uncle Leo's eyes. Then that bastard took more turkey not realizing that the turkey leg has the drawback of being the only piece allowed for the meal. You can have more stuffing, potatoes, gravy, rolls, or whatnot. You can simply "leave extra room for the pumpkin pie". But you cannot take more turkey. It is nearly sacrilegious.
     Eventually, Uncle Leo and myself managed to regain our composure and took some of the now bitter turkey. We both ate in silence. My hangover had left but I still felt nauseated by the act of eating. It was the taste of defeat that made this meal turn my stomach. It was a defeat that had neither honor nor meaning to it. There was no "next year it is mine" in it. It was as though someone stole all of the footballs before the Superbowl. Neither team lost because there was no winner. All the hype beforehand was meaningless without a victor. And during desert this abominable creature I manage to call brother between clenched teeth asks ME if he could spend the night. This bastard has balls indeed despite what all of his ex's claim. I nearly smacked him. Like through much of our childhood, I restrained myself. Maybe it was the sudden idea of revenge. Maybe it was because the pie was being served. Maybe it was because the pie was being served by my mom with a large knife. Whatever the reason, I resisted the primal urge to hurt him. Instead I agreed that I would take him in for the night. Since I had only the one bed/couch, he had the floor. But that was not the revenge. As we got back to my little abode later that evening, I heard a little buzzing in the distance. It was the alarm. I asked him if he could carry the turkey that my mom had given to me. We go to the door and we both heard the growling inside. Like a frightened child, he got behind me. I opened the door and with the speed usually saved for things with more than 50 horsepower, I leaped to the side. My little housedog ran straight for the neck of my brother which was about the same height the turkey which was dropped in fright. Like a 40-pound cannon ball, my little dog knocked my brother over and began to tear at the gravy covered clothing. "That's what you get for taking the other turkey leg," I said as I stepped over the carnage and went inside. Then I shut the door. If that bastard wants to sleep, he knows where the Motel 8 is.

Dolomite